


Platos Desechables

by gwyllion



Category: Brokeback Mountain (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyllion/pseuds/gwyllion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for the In the Kitchen Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Platos Desechables

“Whoever cooked… shouldn’t have ta clean up,” Ennis said. He pushed the plate a few inches across the Formica tabletop toward Jack, the bottom sliding easy across the marbleized finish.

The chirp of crickets pierced the night. Their steady rhythm seeped through the screen door, infusing the kitchen with the sounds of impending autumn, but inside Ennis’s cramped trailer, a cooler weather pattern had already turned the skies cloudy, icy words clinging like frost to a December windowpane.

“I don’t mind lendin’ a hand, but need I remind ya that I bought the steaks an’ all the fixins?” Jack leaned back from the table.

Ennis cleared his throat and stared at the mess of greasy mismatched china, battered silver, and empty bowls. “I cooked,” he said, pressing his palms to the table. “You sayin’ you ain’t gonna wash dishes?”

“I wasn’t sayin’ I wouldn’t help. Just sayin’ it’d be right ta meet me halfway. Hardly think standin’ at the grill an’ flippin’ a steak over a coupla times counts as nouvelle cuisine. What’s this cookin’ and cleanin’ bullshit? I just drove fourteen hours ta spend the weekend up here, no need ta fight over it,” Jack tilted back in his chair, the front legs lifting off the ratty linoleum.

Ennis gave a small grunt and slid his index finger into his shirt pocket, pulling out a pack of smokes. He tamped the squashed box to his hand in a practiced motion of one who had little else to do in his spare time but sit and smoke, his stained teeth and fingers yellowed with nicotine, a testament to his stubborn refusal to quit. His eyes avoided Jack when he lipped down hard on the filter before narrowing some as he brought the flame from the match to the end of the cigarette. “Ya cain’t expect me ta drive ta Texas,” Ennis said, dropping the spent match into the ashtray.

Jack took a swig from his beer bottle. His eyes hunted around the table, looking for what, he didn’t know. “No, I ain’t sayin’ that. Just pointin’ out that I’m tired. Had ta stop an’ fill the truck with gas three times ‘long the way. More ‘an a dollar a gallon now. Brought enough groceries ta last you and yer girls a whole week—”

“I didn’t ask ya ta do none a that. Why don’t ya get a part time job if yer so concerned ‘bout spendin’?” Ennis stood his ground over the remnants of bones, fat and gristle.

Jack let his chair drop to all four legs again, instantly regretting that the motion brought him closer to the battle line drawn between he and Ennis. Not willing to give in too fast by running his mouth, but still wanting to ease the ache of a hard-on that felt as if it had raged for the whole four months since he last saw the man, Jack slid a thumbnail beneath the label of the beer bottle, “Easy there, friend. I‘ll help clean up. If we both work at it, we’ll be done right quick.”

“Yer a selfish bastard, Twist,” Ennis said, the cigarette bobbing up and down as his mouth moved while the rest of Ennis remained still.

“Why? ‘Cause I expect ya ta help a little?” Jack got to his feet and stumbled backwards, away from the sting of words. “I came all this way and there you go shootin’ my airplane outta the sky again. It happens every time. Every goddamn time with you. Ain’t nothin’ will make ya see things right.”

“Don’t know what yer talkin’ ‘bout,” Ennis sat unmoving in the same kitchen chair, chrome flakes chipped off the once shiny legs, rusted spots where a spit of water had been left unwiped, stuffing leaking out through the cracked vinyl.

“It happens all the time, like when your divorce came through an’ you turned me right around. Like when we coulda ranched up. Like now when ya go pickin’ a fight with me over goddamned dishes,” Jack said. He felt his back against the aluminum door, crickets chirping through the torn screen.

“No one asked you ta stay,” Ennis said. “I told you a hun’red times I don’t wanna end up in no ditch.”

*

Jack let the mouthful of wine cooler slide down his throat. The sun burned hot, a stark contrast to the icy liquid that felt like spiced sunshine, lemon-lime sliding down and filling his belly.

He smacked his lips.

Tasted the air.

How many years had Jack taken for granted something simple as permission to sit with his face turned to the sun?

A light breeze had come up. It eased the heat, washed through his hair and cooled his neck, tanned and wrinkled with age. It lifted the paper plates from the sand and threatened to send the remains of their lunch flying down the beach.

“No queremos que las basura en la playa, mi amor,” Santiago said.

“Si, querido,” Jack said, lacing their fingers together.

He wasn’t fast enough to replace the bottle on the plate, to anchor it to the earth, the shifted sand.


End file.
